taken over this role. Their misdeeds unite us, we enjoy plenty of peace and quiet, but we also need excitement and stimulation to make us feel alive. But it's more than that. Every time someone's killed, we experience a kind of fortuitous assurance.'
'Why?' Skarre asked.
'It's the satisfaction of knowing that it wasn't you who committed this awful deed, because you're a good person; and you weren't the victim, either, because you're lucky, too. And then there's a third, uncomfortable, factor: some criminals acquire a heroic status. It might have to do with what you just said. Their lack of respect for the law and the authorities. We're terribly law-abiding individuals, but this slavish obedience in every aspect of our lives can lead to self-loathing.'
He looked over at Skarre.
'Would you do something for me, please?'
'Sure.'
'Would you go to that bookcase and get the first volume of the encyclopaedia?'
Skarre did as he was asked, he pulled out the heavy volume and placed it on Sejer's desk. Sejer eased the dog on to the floor, opened the book at 'A'. Skarre peered over his shoulder as he thumbed through the book.
'What are you looking for?'
Sejer glanced up at him. 'We're looking for a man.'
'Correct.'
'A killer,' Sejer added.
Skarre watched as he leafed through the book.
'And you think he's in the encyclopaedia? That would be a first,' he said.
Sejer continued for a while before finally stopping at a black and white portrait the size of a postage stamp.
'Hans Christian Andersen,' Skarre said.
They studied the picture in silence. Sejer noted the low, sloping forehead, the large nose, the high cheekbones and the crescent of curly hair at the back of his head. Precisely like Kristine Ris's description of the man by the barrier.
'How much do we see in a split second?' Sejer wondered. 'When we pass someone on the road?'
Skarre considered this. 'Not many details,' he stated. 'We see the sum total. And our brain will automatically look for a pre-existing, recognisable match.'
'Like the Danish writer.' Sejer said. 'His face is unique, don't you think? It's sensitive and strong at the same time.'
'He's not an attractive man,' Skarre declared.
'No,' Sejer said, 'there's a quality of weakness about him. And perhaps we'll lose our potential suspect tomorrow. Perhaps he'll come forward and prove to be completely innocent and we're back to square one. Perhaps he went for a walk, like people do on a Sunday in September.'
'Yes,' Skarre nodded. 'You might well be right.'
'Nevertheless,' Sejer went on, 'Reinhardt and Kristine Ris told us that he walked with a certain degree of difficulty. And if he finds it difficult to walk, he's unlikely to walk in the forest for pleasure. Unless he had to, because there was something he had to get rid of.'
Skarre nodded.
'Yet,' Sejer continued, 'doing what I'm doing now is risky.'
'What are you doing?' Skarre wanted to know.
'Fixating on him. Now all I see is the Danish writer. It blinds me to other things.'
'We found a small piece,' Skarre said, 'which might not even be part of the puzzle. It's always like this at the start of an investigation.'
'But this time we haven't got a minute to lose,' Sejer said, 'because this man will strike again.'
CHAPTER 12
He sat on his sofa, curled up in a corner.
He had turned off nearly all the lights and drawn the curtains. He liked the semi-darkness, it gave him a feeling of safety. In his hands he held the red Bermuda shorts. They were made from a fine, thin material, with white inner briefs and a small pocket. In the pocket he had found a sweet-smelling chewing gum wrapper. His first impulse, after what he preferred to call the 'accident', had been to burn the shorts in the stove. But he could not bear it, they belonged to him now, they would always belong to him. When he held them against his face he could detect a faint smell of urine, which he inhaled in deep breaths. He had sat like this for an eternity, while the hours slowly passed, while the light faded, only
'Why?' Skarre asked.
'It's the satisfaction of knowing that it wasn't you who committed this awful deed, because you're a good person; and you weren't the victim, either, because you're lucky, too. And then there's a third, uncomfortable, factor: some criminals acquire a heroic status. It might have to do with what you just said. Their lack of respect for the law and the authorities. We're terribly law-abiding individuals, but this slavish obedience in every aspect of our lives can lead to self-loathing.'
He looked over at Skarre.
'Would you do something for me, please?'
'Sure.'
'Would you go to that bookcase and get the first volume of the encyclopaedia?'
Skarre did as he was asked, he pulled out the heavy volume and placed it on Sejer's desk. Sejer eased the dog on to the floor, opened the book at 'A'. Skarre peered over his shoulder as he thumbed through the book.
'What are you looking for?'
Sejer glanced up at him. 'We're looking for a man.'
'Correct.'
'A killer,' Sejer added.
Skarre watched as he leafed through the book.
'And you think he's in the encyclopaedia? That would be a first,' he said.
Sejer continued for a while before finally stopping at a black and white portrait the size of a postage stamp.
'Hans Christian Andersen,' Skarre said.
They studied the picture in silence. Sejer noted the low, sloping forehead, the large nose, the high cheekbones and the crescent of curly hair at the back of his head. Precisely like Kristine Ris's description of the man by the barrier.
'How much do we see in a split second?' Sejer wondered. 'When we pass someone on the road?'
Skarre considered this. 'Not many details,' he stated. 'We see the sum total. And our brain will automatically look for a pre-existing, recognisable match.'
'Like the Danish writer.' Sejer said. 'His face is unique, don't you think? It's sensitive and strong at the same time.'
'He's not an attractive man,' Skarre declared.
'No,' Sejer said, 'there's a quality of weakness about him. And perhaps we'll lose our potential suspect tomorrow. Perhaps he'll come forward and prove to be completely innocent and we're back to square one. Perhaps he went for a walk, like people do on a Sunday in September.'
'Yes,' Skarre nodded. 'You might well be right.'
'Nevertheless,' Sejer went on, 'Reinhardt and Kristine Ris told us that he walked with a certain degree of difficulty. And if he finds it difficult to walk, he's unlikely to walk in the forest for pleasure. Unless he had to, because there was something he had to get rid of.'
Skarre nodded.
'Yet,' Sejer continued, 'doing what I'm doing now is risky.'
'What are you doing?' Skarre wanted to know.
'Fixating on him. Now all I see is the Danish writer. It blinds me to other things.'
'We found a small piece,' Skarre said, 'which might not even be part of the puzzle. It's always like this at the start of an investigation.'
'But this time we haven't got a minute to lose,' Sejer said, 'because this man will strike again.'
CHAPTER 12
He sat on his sofa, curled up in a corner.
He had turned off nearly all the lights and drawn the curtains. He liked the semi-darkness, it gave him a feeling of safety. In his hands he held the red Bermuda shorts. They were made from a fine, thin material, with white inner briefs and a small pocket. In the pocket he had found a sweet-smelling chewing gum wrapper. His first impulse, after what he preferred to call the 'accident', had been to burn the shorts in the stove. But he could not bear it, they belonged to him now, they would always belong to him. When he held them against his face he could detect a faint smell of urine, which he inhaled in deep breaths. He had sat like this for an eternity, while the hours slowly passed, while the light faded, only
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